Journey On
by TheWildHeffernan
Summary: AU. Valjean, Cosette, and Marius are going to London. They aren't the only ones, and the journey doesn't go as planned. Title is crappy and irrelevant. Appearances by characters from another musical dear to my heart... T just in case.
1. In Which a Translator is Hired

**Disclaimer: I own the shirt on my back and a big chunky copy of the brick with which I will hit you if you think otherwise.**

"Father…?" Cosette called softly for what seemed like the thousandth time that day. Monsieur Fauchelevent didn't seem to hear. Or, of course, he could have been ignoring her, as he was only sitting a few yards away with their luggage, staring forlornly into the sea. She couldn't help but feel that she had let him down somehow, even though, after the initial shock had worn off, he insisted otherwise. Marius, sensing her discomfort, put his arm around her, and she snuggled gratefully into him.

It was 4:30 in the morning, and the port of Calais was already bustling, with ships coming and going and workers lifting and pushing all around. The groaning and shouting seemed to make her father a bit uncomfortable, but he had shrugged it off and gone to check the time. He returned with the news that _the Bountiful_ was due in port any time now, bound for England. It was a merchant vessel, and there were no other passengers. Still, it was only across the channel, and they'd be off.

Marius held Cosette close, still reeling from the events of last night. He and Cosette had been in the garden, as usual. It was late, and they had been arguing, at some times tearfully, what to do about The Situation. Cosette's father was going to England, and Cosette was coming. Marius had been saying that they should elope that night, and run away where no one would ever find them. Cosette insisted there was another option. There had to be. She was unwilling to leave her father, insisting he would die of grief. Marius didn't quite understand this devotion. He had never known his father, and while he strove to carry out the late Colonel Pontmercy's beliefs and hopes, he was stung, guiltily, by the fact that Cosette put old Fauchelevent above her suitor. She had begged him to come to England, as well, but Marius was broke. In fact, he was in debt. He couldn't get himself a passport, let alone pay for the journey.

After an hour of this, Cosette, brilliant Cosette, had sighed brokenly and said, softly, the words that had been hanging in the air this whole time, unspoken.

"We could tell my Father."

She must have seen the look on his face, for she had pressed on immediately.

"Marius, my love, you don't know him. He might not approve, at least not right away, but he hasn't a bad bone in his body. I'm sure I con convince him to at least find a way for us to stay in contact. Come, please?" Marius hesitantly nodded. She threw his arms around him and kissed him sweetly, sealing the deal. "Come with me. He may still be awake."

As it happened, he had been, or at least, must have been by the way he'd jumped out when they opened the door to his carriage house. He was brandishing a small knife, and Marius was painfully aware that, despite M. Fauchelevent's age, it was unlikely he could take him in a fight. He lowered it immediately when he saw Cosette, smiling a bit.

"Hello, child. What are you doing, still up?" He seemed to notice Marius for the first time, and got back on his guard. "Who's this?"

Marius had bowed politely and introduced himself, and, to be honest, the rest of it was a blur. He had said a bit, though Cosette did most of the talking, as he sat in quivering anticipation for the police to be called or the whittling knife to cut his throat. Neither came. The old man's gaze simply fell to the floor as time wore on, and seemed to be nearly catatonic by the end of their tale. There was a silence, and it seemed the crickets of the summer night were holding their breath along with the young lovers inside. M. Fauchelevent finally raised his sad, steady gaze to Marius, and asked abruptly,

"_Parlez-vous anglais_, sir?" Marius had nodded, dumbfounded. "I do not, at least, not enough. Cosette does not, I'm afraid." They both waited in painful silence. "I do not yet know what to make of this whole affair, and I don't know what to say. It seems a pity to take action that we'll all regret without proper time and thought on it. I'll hire you as a translator for us. As such, you'll receive passage to England, room, board, and a small salary." He looked Marius up and down. "And a new coat and hat, if we can find them on the way." He had paused as a clock struck 2:00 in the distance. "The fiacre will be here soon."

He lifted a small trunk without any discernable effort and took one last, longing look around the place, at the colorful drapes hung on the walls and the dying fire, and locked the door behind them.

Cosette had gone to retrieve something, and Marius started when a careful, stone-strong hand gripped his shoulder. He turned to find Cosette's father looking down at him intensely, with a gaze nearly devoid of anger, but brimming over with calm ferocity, and crippling sadness.

"You be good to her. You be good to her," he repeated, "or I'm afraid I might kill you." Marius felt his blood run cold for a moment. "I know you love her. I can see it in the way you look at her. I just want you to know that-" Marius though he heard the man's voice crack, but he must have imagined it. "She is the most amazing girl in France. No… the world. You be good to my daughter, Monsieur Marius." His grip hadn't loosened, but it hadn't tightened, either.

"I know, Sir. I know," Marius replied, trying to put all the sincerity into the words that they deserved.

Marius thought back to that exchange, and wondered what had prompted it. It wasn't as if he was losing his daughter to him. He hadn't even given his permission, really. Only a promise to think. And a job. He seemed to have made up his mind that he would never see his Cosette again, which Marius thought to be a bit melodramatic. He resolved to try and become friendlier with M. Fauchelevent. The man was undoubtedly lonely, and Marius, though they had never met properly until last night, had always admired him. Ever since-

He looked up to see a few more men had joined their little boarding party, to his slight surprise. He wondered what their business was in England. They were big and burly, and he wondered if they might be sailors, although he couldn't think why they would be joining an English crew. They were certainly Frenchmen. They stood off in a tight group by themselves, and didn't seem to be making any efforts to disguise their general air of up-to-no-good.

It was then that another, lone traveler joined the group. He was hunched up against the cold, although, as it was June, it seemed unlikely that the slight breeze was penetrating the man's long woolen coat. Indeed, the coat, as well the thick cap and scarf seemed oddly unseasonable. It was hard to make out his face, which was buried almost childishly in the man's collar. He sat down on a crate and drew his knees up to his chest and his hands into his sleeves. He might have been resting. Or, he might have been watching the other travelers. It was hard to say.

Jean Valjean stood up, groaning slightly as his creaking knees reminded him, per usual, that he was not the young convict he once was. He had had enough mulling for now. He had just about gotten around the fact that Cosette had a young beau, and that she had been keeping it from him. What that meant, well… his heart froze and plummeted to about his naval. It meant a lot of things. He squinted across the water, waiting until he was absolutely sure before he started over to his daughter and… that… boy. Master Pontmercy. The ship was coming in.

**A/N: Salutations! I hope you enjoyed that. Now. What I was going to say… this is a crossover. I don't know if anyone figured that out when they saw the name of the boat, but Sweeney Todd will be coming into the story. I'm posting this under Les Misérables because the crossovers I've written in the past never really got read. It will be written so that it makes sense even if you don't know Sweeney Todd. If you don't know it, then Mr. Todd will just be a mysterious figure until a bit later, as he is in his own story, anyway. If this is a huge violation of some code, I'm sorry. Tell me in a review if it really should be moved to crossovers.**

**In fact, review anyway! I'll take anything. Critiques, this-story-doesn't-deserve-the-time-of-day, complements, you know. Keep in mind it's a AU. I'll post the next chapter as soon as I can. Thank you and God bless, you damn wonderful people! **


	2. In Which a Ship is Boarded

**Disclaimer: People I don't own, In order of appearance: Anthony Hope, Marius Pontmercy, Cosette Fauchelevent, Jean Valjean, Whatever-the-Hell Javert, Thug 1, Thug 2, Thug 3, Sweeney Todd**

**People I do own: Me and Mac here (that's my computer, no need to get excited.)**

Anthony Hope, of the good ship _Bountiful, _was a little overwhelmed at the sudden influx of Frenchmen onboard. He had never had enough of an education to speak the language, but he rather liked it. It sounded like consonant-filled gibberish his brother had mocked him with as a little boy. Some would say that he was still a little boy. He wouldn't have argued- he was slight and pale, with big doe eyes that made it seem like the world was an intensely interesting place; you wouldn't want to blink and miss something, would you? He was only sixteen, anyhow. The world was brand new.

He had joined the voyage in the first place to see as much of it as possible, and he certainly had. The journey had taken him from England to Turkey to Peru. He wanted to travel with his life- everywhere and anywhere he could. The first place he wanted to go now, though, was London, then straight through to Plymouth. He hadn't been home since he was fourteen.

He had cleared out a couple of rooms below for the newcomers; setting up the most comfortable berths he could, under such short notice. It would only be around fourteen hours to London, unless the wind picked up, in which case they could make it in ten. The sky way nearly clear in the dawn, though, and so it was unlikely. The other crewmembers, he noticed, had drifted away and busied themselves, leaving the passengers standing awkwardly on deck. He seemed to have been mutely elected officer of public relations by the crew a few months ago. It had become clear at that point that he was the only one who could get through to the other, less official passenger. Apparently, the position still held. Mr. Todd, though strange, spoke perfect English, Anthony reminded himself.

He clambered up onto a barrel and clasped his hands in front of him in what he hoped was an authoritative pose.

"Bonjour!" he shouted to the six men and lone woman standing on deck. She was quite the looker, he noticed, with a perfect doll face of the sort that he imagined was more common in Paris. She stood beside a thin but handsome young man with an intelligent face. On her other side stood another man, of about sixty, with a thick head and beard of the whitest hair Anthony had ever seen. This man was looking firmly downwards in a stance of benevolent bashfulness. The little family nodded politely at his efforts. The rest stared blankly up at him.

"English?" he called. "Anybody speak English?" The good-looking boy in the back raised his hand timidly. "Could you come up here, please?" Anthony asked, feeling as if he were running some kind of street hawker's show. The young man came shyly forwards.

"I'm a translator," he said carefully, with a heavy but not impossible accent. "I usually do written documents, however, so you must tell me if my English is very bad."

"It's better then lots I've heard, and I'm from the motherland!" Said Anthony, smiling. "Now, sir, could you tell them that I'll bring them to their cabins now. Also, you may want to add that we aren't a passenger ship, so the berths may not be the best, but it's only for tonight. We should be in London by tonight, I should think." Monsieur Translator did his business, and Anthony led them all down to the little rooms he'd prepared for them all.

They were closets, really. Anthony had aired them as much as he could and made makeshift benches to sit on. At least there wouldn't be an overnight. He showed the three friendliest ones to the first, the three not-very-friendly looking ones to the second, and left the third and most cramped to the man with the greatcoat, who didn't seem to belong to either party. He left them in their respective compartments, wandering up to see if there was anything else he ought to do before setting sail.

Jean Valjean pulled his hat over his eyes, exhausted for having not slept in nearly forty-eight hours. All last night, and the night before- up until Marius had come, of course- had been spent arranging their departure. It was more complicated then he had expected to simply pick up and leave. There were thing to be attended to. Toussaint would awake to find the house empty, and the two of them gone. There would be money for her, enough for her to live comfortably in her old age. She could stay at Rue Plumet if she wished, for as long as she wanted. He'd had written a long letter explaining all this, and hoped she would be happy. She'd served him faithfully for years. She deserved it all. He would miss her old face, and her ridiculous stutter.

He realized that he shouldn't sleep. Wouldn't that be, effectively, leaving those two alone in a room? Of course, he remembered, they had been alone every night, for quite some time. Who knew what they had gotten up to? He was glad the hat was there to cover his blushing face. Cosette would never. She was a smart girl, a convent girl. She knew better then to get in like that, over her head. He couldn't help thinking, though, of Fantine. Hadn't she known better? No. Fantine had been an orphan, with no prospects, no education, and no guidance. She couldn't even read.

He instantly felt guilty. He sounded like a proper bourgeois now, thinking like that. Fantine had worshipped Cosette's father (her real father, of course), and she would have done anything to please him, whatever that meant. He was a scheming bastard, obviously, but he seemed to have done an admirable job at it. Monsieur Marius was a student, as he believed Cosette's father had been. However, he was poor, shy, and polite, none of which are qualities well suited to a philanderer.

It didn't really matter, though. He felt his soul drop out from under him as he thought of Cosette marrying anyone. He didn't have any claim over her. She was never his to lose, and that was the terrifying part. He breathed out slowly, wishing it was simple, that Marius had never met Cosette. For one malicious moment, he wished that they had never thought to tell him what had passed between them, and that he had a wretched, but free Cosette beside him, rather then a radiant one who's smile wasn't directed at him. He almost shook his head visibly at the thought. It was selfish. Absolutely selfish. Jean Valjean was of a temperament to mull until a situation was solved to some extent, but he could not solve this. It was not an factory expense sheet, or a puzzle, or even a moral discussion of some kind. This was Cosette, the Cosette who could no longer love him as she had. This was the daughter who was never his, but he was losing anyway. And so his thoughts spiraled, as he double and triple guessed himself to sleep.


End file.
